Ralph S. Mouse - Beverly Cleary [2]
“We would not!” The rougher mice grabbed the motorcycle and brought Ralph to a halt. “And you’re not so big yourself. You fell down.”
All the mice began to complain. “You let us ride, or we’ll tell your mother on you. She said you were supposed to give us a turn.” Cousins closest to Ralph in age said it wasn’t fair for Ralph to have a motorcycle. Nobody had ever given them motorcycles, and they were just as good as Ralph. Some of the meaner mice told him their mothers said Ralph was spoiled and selfish and would probably turn out to be no good when he grew up.
Ralph was hurt. “I am not spoiled, and I am not selfish,” he insisted, as he tried to drag his motorcycle away from all those clutching paws. In his heart, he did not feel selfish. He only wanted something that was his alone. A mouse so rarely had something he could call his own.
“You’re greedy,” said a cheeky outdoor mouse. Then all the mice, down to the littlest one who was tangled in the fringe of the carpet, began to chant, “Ralph is greedy, Ralph is greedy!”
Ralph finally lost his temper and squeaked at the top of his voice, “Beat it, you rotten little rodents!”
“Try and make us.” The outdoor mice were defiant, but Ralph could tell they were not as brave as they pretended.
Shocked and hurt by such strong language, the little indoor mice fell silent. They looked at Ralph with such sad eyes that Ralph was ashamed. “You said bad words,” said one, his voice filled with reproach.
“I’m going to tell on you,” said another. “My mother wouldn’t like you to call me—those words.”
Ralph felt terrible. “Aw, come on,” he said. “It’s just that my motorcycle is wearing out. The tires are thin, and if they wear out, where am I going to get another pair?”
The little mice would not accept this excuse. “We’ve never had a motorcycle at all,” one of them said.
“I know, but—” began Ralph, not knowing how to finish. It was not his fault his young relatives did not have motorcycles. Still, maybe he had used language too strong for little ears. He was only trying to make his pack of pushing, shoving, grabbing relatives behave.
Matt must have understood Ralph’s feelings, for he came to his rescue. “Shoo!” he said loud enough to frighten little mice but not loud enough to terrify them. The word sent them scrabbling back to their hiding places.
“Thanks,” said Ralph.
“Think nothing of it.” Matt gave the fire one last poke before he retired for the night. He left the rapidly drying puddles for Ralph, who took another turn through them. Although water still fanned out from his wheels, somehow the fun had gone out of riding for that night.
Wearily Ralph pushed his motorcycle back to the cave under the clock where it was safe. Even though he was wet and numb with cold, he lovingly wiped mud and paw prints from his chrome spokes with bits of shredded Kleenex. When he began to wipe his exhaust pipes, he discovered they wiggled, loosened by all those tugging paws. The rear wheel shock absorber was loose too.
When Ralph had wiped off all the mud and had polished his chrome, he rummaged through the remains of his nest for a bit of carpet fringe. Unfortunately, it turned out to be too thick for tying his exhaust pipes in place. He felt worse and worse as he began to groom his damp fur. His tires were so thin he no longer wanted to risk the wear of riding them on the rough surface of the carpet. His motorcycle was wearing out. None of his relatives liked him. They were going to tattle on him. In the morning, his mother would venture downstairs to lecture him on the evils of selfishness and bad language. She would also lecture him on his duty to set a good example for little mice.
Ralph pushed his nest together again. I’m a bad mouse, he thought, filled with gloom and guilt. I am a rotten rodent, not my relatives. As he climbed into